Transformation of Things
by Ahaanzel
Summary: Once upon the time, Tom dreamt about a little boy crying in a cupboard under stairs. In the past, Harry dreamt about the Dark Lord of the future, and in said future the Dark Lord dreamt about the past that never was. / Time travel, dreams, paradoxes, character study, Hallows, fairy tales, inspirational speeches, a healthy dose of absurd, confused Dark Lords and éclairs. TMR/HP
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: English isn't my native language. Consider yourselves warned.

* * *

Tom dreamt.

He was sitting on a cot in... somewhere.

- _cramped little space and spider webs_ -

/a cupboard/

...Yes. In a cupboard. How quaint.

The cot creaked under his weight as he shifted in his seat and looked around. A terrified little spider quickly climbed up the wall and disappeared in the corner.

Tom frowned. He hardly saw any reason why he would be sitting in a cupboard, of all places, and neither did he know

- _a sob, a sniff and a hiccup grating on his nerves very quickly_ -

why there would be some brat, whom he have never seen before, sitting next to him.

Tom frowned, thoughtful. He eyed the boy's little frame that was shaking ever so slightly. No, he wasn't one of those brats from the orphanage, of that Tom was certain. Still, the boy made a sight pathetic enough – from his rumpled sweater to a pair of particularly ugly glasses perched dangerously on the tip of his nose – to easily pass as one of them. And he was _crying_ for some dumb reason, no doubt, clutching a teddy bear for a dear life, as if the stupid toy could make anything better.

He snorted. It itched him to do something mean to the boy, just to see, if could make him snivel even more in his snot nosed misery. Perhaps he'd take away his precious teddy

- _battered and old, with its eye-button dangling on a bright coloured string_ -

and throw away somewhere? Or better, burn it in the backyard?

/I didn't do anything, I swear!/

That thought angered him. All brats were like that; they wailed and threw fits, claimed their innocence as if _they_ were the victims there, and then pointed their grubby, accusing fingers at Tom.

But there was some justice in the world, as it seemed. Tom watched the little boy – his hunched shoulders, his foggy glasses, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. He watched, feeling a kind of...vicious satisfaction, he supposed. Whatever had the boy broken down like that, the brat probably deserved it.

Served him right, then.

/her hair just...! Suddenly, just turned _blue_, as if it was - /

So juvenile, he sneered. Whatever for one would want to pull a meaningless prank that was bound to get him caught soon afterwards?

/- **magic**!/

Tom blinked.

No, that couldn't be right. There was no way this pathetic, snot nosed brat could be a wizard too!

But, for as much as he wanted to deny it – should he choose to ignore the messy appearance and ugly glasses...

He did not feel so vicious any longer. Instead, an emotion of something _uncomfortable_ settled in his stomach. Tom bit his lip. He didn't wish to remember it, but there had once been a time when he had felt misery gnaw at his little heart, and had shed a tear or two.

(That was a long time ago, though. Before he found out he can make others hurt too.)

Tom hated this dream and the cupboard now, for reminding him of _that. _And what made it even worse for some reason, the boy was still crying, as if he didn't know Tom was sitting right next to him.

And then, there was the buzz – curious sound only Tom could ever hear, rapidly getting louder.

_Potential, a promise of endless possibilities._

- Not knowing why, not really, Tom raised his hand.

He would not know it for many, many years to come, but at that moment something had changed.

A shift in power. A ripple in time.

A whisper of touch and a simple idea. _There, there. You are not alone._

. . .

Startled, the boy looked around his empty cupboard.

* * *

Tom woke up with a start. It took him a minute of starring in confusion at the curtains of his four-poster to realise he was in the first year students' dormitory, rather than in a cramped, dirty cupboard.

Later that morning he was getting ready for his first lessons on magic ever, while pointedly ignoring poorly veiled jabs and insults of his house-mates, not about to let them damper his mood. He did not remember his dream any more.

* * *

"_Formerly, I, Zhuang Zou, dreamt that I was a butterfly, a butterfly flying about, feeling that it was enjoying itself. I did not know that it was Zhou. Suddenly, I awoke and was myself again, the veritable Zou. I did not know whether it had formerly been Zou dreaming that he was a butterfly, or it was now a butterfly dreaming that it was Zou. But between Zou and a butterfly there must be a difference. This is a case of what is called the Transformation of Things."_

/Zhuangzou


	2. Chapter 2

Tom strolled pleasantly into the Great Hall. He nodded in the general direction of the teachers table – Slughorn brightened up at the sight of his favourite pupil, Tom noticed and resisted an urge to sneer, and headmaster Dippet acknowledge him with a small nod of his own. Many students waved cheerfully, as he passed their Houses' respective tables and one of the Gryffindor prefects, _oh that was priceless_, scrambled to personally congratulate him.

It was the beginning of his seventh year in Hogwarts and everything was going according to plan.

His fellow Slytherins greeted him with the choir of excited admiration. Tom smiled benevolently at his house-mated and took his seat at the table. He'd been made a Head Boy and that in itself was quite gratifying. Yet, looking at the Slytherins' students – their faces so respectful and adoring – he couldn't help but feel particularly smug; whether for his new position being properly recognised, or because no-one dared so much as to notice that his Head Boy badge was pinned proudly to a robe obviously bought second-hand.

Good. Their lesson was learned and revised, then.

"So Riddle, we've been thinking," Rosier leaned in from across the table and started in conspiratorially lowered voice. _'We'_ leaned in as well. The thought their solemn faces and allusions to the Dark Arts thrown carelessly in the Great Hall bustling with innocent laughter and silly chatter might seem suspicious, especially in the light of – well...clearly hadn't crossed their minds.

And Rosier. He, who had once sneaked into his father's study, in the dead of the night, and read the editor's note to his parents' copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ – and thought himself Dark Wizard.

Pathetic, the whole lot of them.

"Are you _certain_ here and now is the best time to discuss it?" he inquired absent mindedly, straightening his tie, acutely aware of Dumbledore's narrowed eye look send his way. "Later," he said firmly and turned his attention to the line of new students marching in to be sorted.

Tom had no way of knowing that, of course, but fifty three years, nine months, one day and few hours into the future from that moment, a troubled young man would be pouring memories of the late Hogwarts' headmaster into Pensieve. Then, taking a deep breath, he would plunge into shimmering silvery substance, to learn – for better or worse – about Lord Voldemort's last Horcrux.

* * *

Harry sat behind the headmaster's desk and hid his face in his palms.

Logically, he knew what he should feel right now. Helplessness, definitely. Bitterness, probably. Maybe just a tiny bit of betrayal that only at the very end did he get to learn the truth. The whole of it.

He emitted a hollow laughter. How skilfully did they craft this moment, Snape and Dumbledore. Masterfully done, Harry gave them that. To allow him to find out about the last Horcrux – the necessity of his own demise, when everything was already said and done. Stroke of genius, that's what it was. Because even if Voldemort would have allowed him to flee – which he most certainly would not have – Harry simply could not escape. It would render the deaths of good wizards and witches, and his mother's sacrifice meaningless.

Dumbledore knew that and so did Snape.

So yes. Helplessness and bitterness, and eventually, once the grandfather clock's hand would mark an hour passed – resignation.

That was what he should feel. Harry knew that, logically.

Only that it wasn't what he was feeling at the moment at all.

He couldn't pinpoint why exactly, but for some reason he had never felt nearly as hopeless as he _logically_ knew he should have felt. Even though the circumstance indicated otherwise – like, when he was a kid, laying in his cupboard wide awake in the dead of the night, dreading nightmares of mirthless laughter and green light. Or in his second year, when he was thought to be the Slytherin's heir, or later, in fourth, when everyone turned their backs on him because of the Tournament fiasco.

- Never once did he feel alone. That, in turn, made him love life just a tiny bit more – made him cling to it that tiny bit more. So naturally, being told to lie it down invoked many feelings in Harry, but none of them was hopelessness or resignation.

Truth to be told, Harry had never felt so frustrated before.

Oh, he knew what he had to do. Dumbledore ensured that once the time would come, he'd have the words of duty craved behind his eyelids. And maybe it was a good thing he did, Harry thought, because he actually had half a mind to high-tail to South America, get a citizenship of some nice country, hire an attorney and sue one 'Voldemort, Lord' for repeated assassination attempts, stalking and mental abuse.

Harry would have snort at the thought, had his throat not been clenched so painfully.

Instead, he rubbed his throbbing temples. Inwardly he was shaking in suppressed fury at not _just_ a tiny bit of betrayal and -

He reached the point of no return, but Merlin, he really didn't want for it be the end just yet.

His breath hitched, maybe because air was so thick with magic that night, even more so that ever; it buzzed

- _with potential, a promise of endless possibilities_ -

He wanted to save everyone, he truly did. He was prophesied to destroy Voldemort, for crying out loud, but...he didn't want to die.

He really didn't want to die.

**He wanted out of here.**

. . .

No spell had been said. There was no fancy ritual and not a single rune had been drawn. None of that was needed. Before Latin incantations, elaborate ceremonies and the simplest of runes, at the very begging of magic, there was only a wish – one powerful enough to warp the fabric of universe.

The clock stuck an hour, but in the headmaster's office there was no-one to hear it.


	3. Chapter 3

It started innocently enough, of course.

After rather surprising number of hatstalls the Ceremony was finally finished and the last first year student to be sorted trotted to join his house-mates at the Hufflepuff table. The moment he was seated, professor Dippet rose to give his annual Start-of-Term speech. He had nothing interesting to say, _as expected_, but Tom listened attentively to his greetings and words of warning nevertheless, and afterwards, clapped along with the rest of student body.

The Feast was about to begin and all the signs on Earth and – a quick glance at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling to check_ –_ in Heaven indicated it was going to be a regular one, not unlike any other.

Two minutes later, it was a pandemonium.

. . .

In Hogwarts, air was always so thick with magic those more attuned to it could almost smell it. And magic was never dormant. It shimmered in the candlelight, echoed in every sound of the old castle. Patiently waited to be called with a simple wish.

But something was different that evening. Air seemed to buzz with nervous energy of – _what?_ - brewing just beneath the surface. Magic thickened – even more so than ever – and tensed in anxious anticipation, as boundaries of possibility were stretched _and stretched_ -

and finally, they were **snapped.**

**. . .**

Great explosion shook the ancient walls of Hogwarts. Cutlery clattered and light of hundreds of candles floating in midair flickered wildly casting long shadows around the Hall. Magic swirled chaotically and many students cried out in alarm when bright coloured sparks burst from their wands, seemingly for no reason whatsoever.

Then, it all stopped and eerie silence fell over the Great Hall.

That is, until some _genius_ (Tom made an educated guess it was some obnoxious Gryffindor) yelled stupidly "Dark Lord Grindewald is attacking us!" because that was when the panic started. Students were, in growing order of hysteria, either looking anxiously around, screaming something incoherent, or apparently trying to hide, but not knowing where – thus, running aimlessly around and colliding with others, what in turn increased the feeling of general confusion and panic.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Tom mumbled angrily as he strode purposefully to the teachers' table, sidestepping one Hufflepuff student who tried her damnedest to romantically faint into his arms. Out of the corner of his eye Tom saw Head Girl hurrying in his wake.

"Everybody, CALM DOWN!" Dippet bellowed, scrambling to his to his feet.

The commotion died a bit but not quite.

Teachers hastily stood up as well, taking out their wands. Dumbledore quickly whispered something on the headmaster's ear, who nodded once, his expression grave.

"Professor?" Tom inquired, a note of urgency in his voice, as he reached the staff table.

"Mr Riddle, good you're here," Dippet nodded somewhat distracted and turned back to the student body, casting quick _Sonorus_ at his throat. "ATTENTION, please! Every student _and_ ghost," he looked pointedly at hyperventilating Fat Fair – a curious sight, especially since ghosts, being, well, _dead_, didn't need to breath, "is to CALM DOWN and return to his or hers seat!"

That brought at least some resemblance of order. Prefects snapped to attention and proceeded to drag their most hysterical house-mates back to their respective tables and shushed those still dead set on screaming bloody horror.

Tom noticed and was rather proud about it, that Slytherin had the least number of broken down first years.

"Now," Dippet continued once everyone was seated, though not so much calmed down. "My colleagues and I will go now to investigate the source of this...accident. We will place protective wards on the Great Hall and spell the door shut. Now, you are to remain seated and under no circumstances, I repeat, under _no_ circumstances try to leave this Hall." He made a pause to let his words sink in.

At the Gryffindor table someone sniffed pitifully. House of the brave indeed, Tom sneered.

"Prefects, you are responsible for maintaining order," Dippet instructed and turned to Tom. "Should anything happen, Mr Riddle, Ms Blackwood," he nodded to acknowledge nervous Ravenclaw student standing next to Tom, "can I count on you?"

"Of course, sir," they replied in unison, as they were expected to.

With a flick of his wand, Dippet cancelled _Sonorus_ charm. "Very well. Let's go, then," he motioned his colleagues to follow him and marched down the Hall.

Tom followed them with his gaze all the way to the door.

* * *

That was about an hour ago.

An hour spent wishing he hadn't been made Head Boy.

Whether because Hogwarts was the first place he felt comfortable calling _home_, or maybe because he was the Founder's heir – Tom regarded the school as _his_ territory. He knew every corridor, every staircase, searched every nook and cranny to discover long forgotten wonders of the old castle. He befriended both portraits and ghost, had his _associates_ in each House to know exactly what was going within its walls. So, the thought some kind of 'magical accident', as white-faced Kettleburn phrased it, happened, and to deal with it Aurors assistance was required, didn't sit well with Tom.

Not that Kettleburn let that piece of information slip – thankfully, he did not. But as he was instructing prefects to inform their peers that 'there was no danger' and then to escort them to their dormitories, Tom deemed it high time to practise him newly acquired skill and carefully skimmed through professor's memories.

What he found was hardly satisfactory. Kettleburn knew there was explosion – in the headmaster's office, by the looks of it. He also knew that a body – a person, alive but unconscious, was found there, but that was it. With that little knowledge and far too many unanswered questions, Tom was stuck for another half an hour, because he had his duties as a Head Boy to perform.

Curses! Had he not been made prefect in his fifth year -

he would have missed the privileges coming with this position. _Obviously_.

But at least, at time like this, he would be so wonderfully unnoticeable sneaking away from the Great Hall would be too easy. Had he not been made prefect, he would have got an insight on the 'magical accident' an _hour_ ago, because leading by the hand snot nosed first years would be someone else's problem.

But seeing as babysitting terrified brats was, unfortunately, his problem, it was only now that he was hurrying down the corridor on the third floor to reach the entrance to the Headmaster's Tower. He barely got there it in time to see the gargoyle jump aside to let small procession of wizards out. Dumbledore, looking a bit worse to wear, followed by -

Tom abruptly stopped, his eyes wide. That couldn't be _Unspeakables_, could it? But no, there was no mistaking the colour of their robes.

_What_ Unspeakables would be doing here? Magical accidents of this kind used to be Law Enforcement's area of expertise, not Department of Mysteries'!

Two Unspeakables were caring stretcher, he noticed. As if in a daze, Tom stepped closer to get a better look at the person resting upon it, ignoring Dumbledore who gasped and frowned his disapproval at the sight of Tom.

"Mr Riddle, what on earth are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Professor, I was just -," Tom fell silent in the middle of his excuse, peering down at the person carried on stretcher.

It was a boy – no, young man, covered in blood, his clothes torn in few places. There was something distinctively familiar about his face, Tom frowned and tried to put his finger on it. From the line of young man's jaw to curiously shaped scar peeking through his black fringe...

Tom felt his blood run cold.

_- The cupboard, the Chamber, that small bedroom – was there more, oh Merlin, he couldn't remember! -_

Tom knew that person. It was impossible, but – had the young man been awake, Tom knew, green eyes would have been looking back at him.

"Mr Riddle, are you feeling alright...?"

Those dreams. Each one of them felt so frighteningly real that once he woke up from his slumber, he wasn't sure where or whom he was any more. He was very careful not to dwell on them too much, more comfortable letting himself forget ever having them in the first place.

And yet – every time they occurred, he wasted _weeks_ on fruitless research, trying to find the reason behind them. But every time he got little more than divination rubbish.

He'd never entertained the idea they felt real, because they _were_ real.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He didn't want to consider this possibility. For one, it seemed so absurd, so _impossible_, even in the world of magic. But also, though he didn't want to admit it, even to himself... The notion that lonely child, who grew up to – there was a phantom ache in his chest at the mere memory of that dream; the thought he might truly exist somewhere out there, in consequence, would bring up a question of what that fact could mean for Tom.

He was afraid of what the answer would be.

"Tom! Are you feeling alright?!"

He finally tore his eyes away and looked up at Dumbledore. The man looked genuinely concerned for his sake, perhaps first time in all those years. It was laughable, really, but he would appreciate the humour better, if weren't so...unnerved.

He managed a weak nod.

_Oh for the love of -! Get a grip, Tom Riddle! To break down like that, in front of Dumbledore of all people, how pathetic is that?_

He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, so that his palms wouldn't shake.

"You're right, of course, professor," he said politely, forcing his facial muscles to produce a smile. "I'll go back to my dormitory right away." He nodded, sneaked one last look at the bloodied young man and quickly turned to go back the way he came.

. . .

Tom didn't get a wink of sleep that night. He laid still in the silence of seventh year students' dormitory, trying to make sense of what refused to make sense.

He didn't know what kind of sorcery was at work in here, but he swore he would get to the bottom of it.


	4. Chapter 4

Well into thirty eighth hour of interrogation, Harry felt very nostalgic about that _Avada_ Lord Voldemort would have oh so graciously provided.

It was established early on – that is, about three hours after he awoke and had a vial of Veritaserum poured down his throat _(and what it was with Ministry's employees and the truth serum, for crying out loud, even he knew three drops would suffice and he was rubbish at Potions!)_ - that no, he wasn't a solder in Grindewald's army, and no, he wasn't the Dark Lord himself in clever disguise, and last but not least – no, except for juicy story of Grindewald's questionable past relationship with Albus Dumbledore, Harry didn't know much about the Dark Lord, because he barely passed History of Magic.

Harry thought it left his interrogators feeling a bit at loss – or at least, the Auror who's been questioning him visibly deflated and left the interrogation room soon afterwards. The Unspeakables, on the other hand, were as expressionless as ever, and the moment they were left alone with Harry, they proceeded to squeeze out of him the story of his whole life. And random historical facts he remembered from Binn's classes or had learned elsewhere. And every single detail concerning what they dubbed as _the Accident_.

Halfway through, one of the Unspeakables took pity of him and spiked his Veritaserum with coffee.

The subject of the Killing Curse and his scar brought up another round of Unspeakables poking him with strange devices; Harry had a feeling that round number one was conducted while he was still unconscious. But at least, while at it, they had also patched up his injuries. Looking down at his bandaged hand, Harry thought he must have had looked pretty gruesome, when he was first brought in here. Well, he supposed, running back and forth on a battlefield and then, being way to close for anyone to be healthy to a magical explosion, would do that to a person.

Around forty third – or maybe it was forty forth, he wasn't sure – hour of interrogation the Unspeakables decided their curiosity was satiated _for now_ and generously offered to answered some questions of his own. Harry might have had some quarries around hour number one, like _what on earth is going on?!_, but at this point he felt dead tired and ready to fall asleep on his feet, so he didn't give a damn about it anymore.

No wonder then, that once the Unspeakables, unprompted, informed him he had apparently travelled over fifty years into past, Harry felt very blasé about it.

Then, _finally_, they allowed him to get some rest, although Harry wasn't thrilled with his accommodation. In Department of Mysteries there was simply no place suitable for long and what's more important – undisturbed slumber, yet Unspeakables scoffed at the thought of letting him far from their sight, thus he was escorted to the Ministry's cell.

On the second thought, however, it wasn't so bad. He had a nice, fluffy mattress conjured for him to emphasise the point he technically wasn't a prisoner, so all in all, Harry decided dazedly, life was looking up.

He fell asleep the moment his head hit the mattress.

* * *

Harry woke up to the sight of a Unspeakable holding a tray of food.

Later Harry would suspect that someone thought it an excellent idea to wake a wary wizard with such a peaceful, domestic sight and _theoretically_, he would have been right. But unfortunately 'domestic' and 'Unspeakable' did not collocate well, so instead of nice, fuzzy feeling, first thing in the morning Harry almost went into cardiac arrest.

Said Unspeakable, on the side note, was appointed to guard his cell whenever Harry resided in it, because as it turned out, he was now one of the top secret projects the Department of Mysteries was working on, so he was ought to be supervised by one of its employees at all times.

If the Unspeakable felt the tiniest bit of shame – as, in Harry's opinion, every decent human being should – for causing him...unrest, he most certainly hid it well. Not beating an eyelid, he set the tray down by his mattress and instructed him to eat up, because someone would be sent to collect him shortly.

It was shortly indeed, for no sooner had the Unspeakable spoken his part than one of his colleagues sprung out of nowhere. They exchanged nods, few murmured words and then turned in unison to watch Harry choke down his breakfast. Unblinkingly.

That was the beginning of his oh so delightful two-weeks long stay in the Ministry.

During that time Harry discovered a number of fascinating things he never wanted to know about Department of Mysteries and its employees. For instance, that the room he was brought every other day for yet another round of him being poked with strange devises reminded him uncomfortably of the secret labs where aliens were always kept in science fiction films. He also confirmed what he had feared – that the ridiculous amount of Veritaserum he was forced to consume during his first, never-ending interrogation was very slow to wear of, meaning he was prone to random confession concerning odd and often embarrassing facts about himself, usually in least appropriate places. Like that one time, around eight o'clock, in a lift crowded with the Ministry's employees, Harry remembered and cursed for the umpteenth time the potioneer who created the truth serum. In that setting, he loudly declared his secret fondness of odd numbers. In response, the Unspeakable who escorted him back and forth between his cell and the ninth level – and that was one and only time Harry had ever heard him speak – admitted, with a little blush colouring his cheeks, that personally, he had always favoured even numbers, because they divided by two so nicely.

The reception of both confessions came in a form of horrified silence and on the next stop, whether it was their destination or not, Ministry's employees hurried out of the lift.

But then again, no matter how bizarre the circumstances, should one be subjected to said situation for an extended period of time, the bizarreness would eventually loose its absurd edge and turn into familiar pattern. And so, in the end, he did get used to being questioned about every agonising detail of what the Unspeakables wanted him to say. Out of necessity, he built up resistance to their default creepiness; freaking out every single time he realised his guard had been watching him, unblinkingly, in his sleep, was getting rather exhausting. In time, even examination room could hardly phrase him.

There were other things, however, to which he couldn't grow accustomed to. Like, seeing date 'September 1944' printed on the newest issues of the Prophet carried every morning by the Ministry's employees.

This whole time travelling thing. He didn't know how to feel about it.

He shouldn't be here and not only because it defied the laws of both, magic _and_ science. He should have been brave enough to face Voldemort for the last time and end, once and for all, this nightmare. It had stretched for far too long.

_Even if it would cost Harry his life._

And yet, he didn't feel guilty. Well, not exactly.

His wish coming true meant he valued his own life over the fate of wizarding world, ashamed as he was to admit it (and imagine disappointment in Dumbledore's kind eyes).

But now – what? Voldemort and Harry were over fifty years apart now. They were like – how should he put this...like a story that was supposed to reach its conclusion by now, but instead was left unfinished at the beginning of its last chapter.

...Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he thought how things would have been better for everyone, had someone made sure Lord Voldemort would never rise to power. He entertained that idea and since 'past' became his 'present' – maybe he would be able to change it?

Create a future without the Dark Lord in it?

But then, he would turn on his side and see the Unspeakable looking back at him; and with sudden sense of absolute certainty, he would know that it couldn't possibly be as simple as that.

* * *

Harry dreamt.

He was swirling his wand between his long, spidery fingers.

_His wand. Elder wood and Thestral hair._

His brow creased. He could feel the power buzzing pleasantly in the wood underneath his fingertips, but _still_ something didn't feel right. No matter. Should the fabled wand remain inadequate, soon enough he would be able to wield his old wand again.

He listened to the sounds of Forbidden Forest, a victorious smirk on his face. It was only a matter of minutes now.

Lord Voldemort was waiting.


	5. Chapter 5

"We are screwed," those were the words Unspeakable Selwyn, head of Department of Mysteries, chose as an opening line to one most important conversation that would conclude Harry's two weeks long stay at Ministry.

Harry raised an eyebrow. He felt a bit bad for the head of Department, he really did. It was no secret Selwyn had slept the total of maybe six hours those past two weeks, busy as he was _researching Harry_, and the man certainly looked it. He sported truly impressive dark circles under his eyes that no clever charm could possibly hide any more. Harry suspected the man was still awake only because he drowned energy potions like pumpkin juice.

Still, Harry felt rather offended by the assumption their situations sucked equally. But acting on his rightful indignation before a person in position of power would get him nowhere – if dealing with Dumbledore taught him anything, it would be that simple truth. So instead, poorly imitating Snape's stiff upper lip, Harry drawled, "are we? I beg your pardon, Unspeakable Selwyn," he went on politely, though his words oozed with sarcasm, "but I was under impression I was screwed considerably more."

...

The Unspeakable blinked.

Frowning, Harry quickly ran over in his thoughts what he had just- _oh._

His upper lip promptly slacked.

_Oh my_, Harry felt like slapping himself, _that was one awkward wording, wasn't it?_

"No, it's not, I mean, I merely meant that -!" he flushed bright red, trying to splutter out his explanation.

"I know what you meant, Mr. Potter," Selwyn assured him quickly; but then he got this contemplative look on his face, and as an afterthought he added, "I think," suddenly rather embarrassed himself.

Harry mentally groaned. Why did things like that always happen to him?! One time he needed very badly to be calm, collected and preferably as silver-tounged as Voldemort in his younger years had been, no less.

Selwyn cleared his throat. "Anyway," he rubbed his eyes tiredly, "due to your...arrival, Mr. Potter, we are all now in very delicate situation. Possibly disastrous. In that way we are equally doomed," he said, as if that alone explained everything.

Personally, Harry thought it explained very little and let him opinion be known by starring at the man with big, blank eyes.

"But maybe I should start from the beginning..." Selwyn said uncertainly. Harry's point was taken, as it seemed. "As you are aware, on September the first headmaster Dippet send an urgent message to the Law Enforcement, saying there apparently was an explosion in his office and unknown individual was found laying unconscious there."

"I gathered as much," Harry murmured, his blush already fading. "But it wasn't Law Enforcement that kept me here for two weeks, was it?" he inquired, sending Selwyn a dirty look, just to let him know that being a research project wasn't Harry's idea of good time.

The man sighed. "No, of course not. When Aurors arrived at the scene, they established few, crucial things. For one, it was evident that whoever you were, you couldn't have Apparated to Hogwarts; to do so, you would have had to destroy every single ward erected around the school grounds, and they were still in place."

"Obviously," Harry pointedly injected. Probably Merlin himself would find shattering Hogwarts many wards somewhat problematic.

Selwyn raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't show his displeasure at Harry's little commentary. "Aurors questioned Portraits," he continued. "They swore no-one went into the office, so that ruled out the possibility you had sneaked into castle under Disillusionment spell, and also, that no-one flooed in there. They claimed, one moment there was an explosion, and the next – you were laying there, covered in blood. And unlike living wizards, Portraits have no reason to lie.

"So the only conclusion they could reach, unnerving as it was... Was that you literally appeared out of nowhere. In situations like this, they did what any responsible wizard should – they called us, Unspeakables."

"What about Portkeys?" Harry challenged, frowning.

"There was no such thing on your person, Mr. Potter. There was, however," Selwyn sipped his energy potion, "a cape with Dark Lord Grindewald's symbol on it."

Harry's eyes widened. "But -! But, **no**, it's not Grindewald's! It's Deathly Hallows' -!"

"We know that _now_, we didn't know it _then_, Mr. Potter," Selwyn cut in, his tone leaving no room for an argument; but seeing the look on Harry's face, he softened his expression.

For Unspeakable to be so expressive, fatigue really must have gotten to him, Harry noted somewhat absently.

"Try to look at it from our perspective. It's year 1944. We are at war, both in magical _and_ muggle world. And all of sudden, we get the information there was an explosion in school full of our children, doubtlessly caused by a man wearing Dark Lord Grindewald's symbol...-"

Yes, Harry supposed it did make sense. But just because he understood where the man came from, it didn't mean he could help a pointed, "at least you could have taken me to hospital, before you drugged me with Veritaserum."

And even before he finished saying those words, he already regretted having voiced them out.

"Tell me Mr. Potter," Selwyn leaned in, fixing Unspeakable's default unblinking gaze on Harry's face. "Should a man you've never seen before appear _out of nowhere _in a camp where you and your friends were hiding, and said man had a -" he stole a glance down at his notes, to check, "a Dark Mark on his arm... Would you take him to St Mungo's and fluff his pillows for him? _Would you?_"

Harry looked down at his palms. He needed not to say anything in response; they both knew what his answer would be.

_No. He wouldn't._

He would petrify the man and demand confession the moment he awoke – and should the man stubbornly remain silent, Ron would rough him up a bit, because waiting for Hermione to brew Veritaserum would take up too much time.

"How about you tell me how I got in here in the first place?" he asked, dejected, when silence stretched for too long.

Selwyn sighed. "From what you've told us, we deducted you used very old magic. The same magic, in fact, that your mother used to ensure you would survive."

"What?!" Harry looked up in disbelief. "What –_ I_ used some kind of..._what_?"

Taking pity of his helpless confusion, Selwyn wasted no time to elaborate. "Wizards believe ritualism to be the oldest form of magical practise, but they are wrong. The oldest, most ancient form consists of simply articulating one's wish in a place where magic is most potent – like Hogwarts after battle, or your house during the attack of Lord...what was his name," Selwyn quickly searched through his notes, "Voldemort, doubtlessly were.

"By simple wish-making great feats of magic can be performed – you are living example of that. However, it was relatively soon replaced by more advanced ritualism; no matter how powerful wish-making was, more often than not it resulted in rather odd and unexpected side-effect. For instance, I'm fairy sure your mother merely wished for you to live, Mr. Potter. That the Dark Lord who posed a threat to you ended up destroyed in the process...well, that just happened."

Harry didn't know whether to be bewildered or astonished – or maybe he should just crack up at the thought of what Voldemort would say, had he ever heard his untimely demise _well, just happened_.

"Still, it takes a particularly strong-willed wizard, even in a place thick with magic, for wish-making to actually work," Selwyn mused, ignoring Harry's small existential crisis. "Seeing as you are sitting here right now, it's a safe bet to say you inherited that from your mother, Mr. Potter."

Suddenly, Harry remembered something. "But -! No, wait. It's not right, even with those side-effects. I remember wishing to be _out of there_, as in, out of _that place_. But then, technically, I was still in the very same place – in headmaster's office, Hogwarts, just...over fifty years into past."

Selwyn nodded. "Ah, yes. If the bond you share with the future Dark Lord truly is what you said it -"

"Yes, it is, I'm his Horcrux, do continue please," impatient, Harry got a word in the edgeways. He knew the concept of a human Horcrux was hard for Unspeakables to comprehend, much less to accept, but he was fed up with being doubted on this point all the time.

"_Then,_ there is no place in the world were you would be able to hide from him."

Cold weight settled in Harry's stomach, upon hearing those words.

"Magic recognised it, of course, so if hiding you in place was for naught..." Selwyn went on, "it hid you in time, instead."

"So, now what?" Harry asked in a small voice.

"Now, we have serious trouble," said Unspeakable and swallowed a mouthful of his potion.

Harry felt his temper spike again. "Yes, Unspeakable Selwyn, _I know_. That little you've made clear, already."

"I'll explain it in a minute," the man appeased him. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, what was your first thought, when you learned about your time travel?"

No, Harry couldn't believe this man. "What does it have to do with anything?!"

"Humour me," Selwyn deadpanned, turning his Unspeakable creepiness on.

"I thought it was some bastard's bad idea of a joke," he snarled, obediently.

"And your second?"

Harry caught on. Reluctantly – _he knew it couldn't possibly be that easy, he just knew!_ – he admitted, "I thought I might be able to stop him and, you know. Create a future without Dark Lord in it."

Selwyn tiredly rubbed his eyes. "I was afraid you would say so." He sighed. "Mr. Potter, I cannot stress it enough, but you cannot make any changes."

* * *

When Tom was in his fifth year, he had a dream.

He was in the Chamber of Secrets and there was that boy from the cupboard with him, wearing robes with Gryffindor crest.

_- he was right, the boy was a wizard after all -_

Tom was saying something to the boy, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was. How very strange. It was like his lips moved on their own accord, forming word after word – not bound by Tom's will at all.

The boy's fingers were curled around basilisk's fang

_- what was he doing down here, in the Chamber? -_

in his other hand, he was holding a little black book that looked like his diary, eerily so. But it made no sense. Why would the boy hold in possession Tom's diary, Tom's -

Basilisk's fang stabbed through the black covers.

. . .

Tom woke up with a start. He was laying in comfortable darkness of his dormitory, gasping for a breath. Shaking. Sweating.

Frantically, he grasped around for his diary. The little book was so very important, a peace of his soul was going to be stored in there one day, as soon as he learns how to do it...-

He paused, his fingers hovering uncertainly an inch above the black cover.

The boys eyes were green, Tom remembered suddenly. Green, and full of disdain. Looking at Tom with hatred.

_His diary stabbed with basilisk's fang._

Tom raised his hand to massage away phantom pain in his chest.

Maybe..._maybe_, he was too hasty. Yes, that's it – too hasty. He'll learn everything there is to know about Horcruxes, of course he will. And then, Tom looked down at his diary, then, he'll think it through again.

But he won't be making one just yet.


	6. Chapter 6

_Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time._

He never gave it much thought before, but now that he did – it _was_ strange. Many terrible things had occurred that night in his third year

(Sirius, Pettigrew, Lupin, dementors)

but it was only the warning of Hermione's that truly struck a chord in him. The memory of his friend saying it, her face stern...it came back sometimes. Those words – he would remember them, when on the verge of falling asleep. They would bright about an unexplainable sense of unease into his dreams, filling them with confusion of images, not-yet memories.

(_Something unknown is doing we don't know what._) *

Harry wondered. Could it have been what muggles used to call precognition?

. . .

"Mr. Potter, I understand you must find it upsetting, but -"

"And bloody damn right you are that I find it upsetting!" Harry yelled, his temper finally getting better of him. He wanted very badly to reach out, grab the Unspeakable by his shoulders and shake him – _anything_, really, to make the man see thing things his way, for once.

Except that... _No, not like that. You're not fifteen-year-old any more. _

Harry exhaled slowly, feeling the anger seep out of him.

"Why can't you see it?" he pleaded in a small voice, after a moment of silence. He rubbed his scar, tiredly. "It's 1944 now, isn't it? Voldemort is still but a schoolboy and..._that_ future doesn't exist yet, so we only need to make some...-"

The Unspeakable sighed. "I know muggle scientist are coming up with a rather curious equations lately, Mr. Potter, but that's all they are – curious equations."

"- And if you think what you've just said made any sense to me, then guess what? Wrong you are, Unspeakable Selwyn," Harry retorted, not missing a beat and glared at the man to emphasise his point.

Selwyn's lips thinned. "Very well, then," he replied in a clipped voice. He cleared his throat and began his elaborate. "Mr. Potter, what you were suggesting – altering the course of events, that is, would result in creating an alternative timeline. Sort of, like," his brow furrowed, as he looked for a right words to describe it, "_splinching_ the very universe we live in," he made a parting motion with his palms, to emphasise his point, "into two separate worlds. In the original one, Voldemort – that was his name, right? So, in the original one, _Voldemort_ will become a dark lord; in the other, due to your interference, he will find another occupation," he stated and threw Harry an expectant look.

"Well," Harry frowned, running Selwyn's explanation over in his thoughts. He didn't really have a head for theoretics, but it sounded about right. "Yes, I suppose."

"Right," the Unspeakable nodded. "It could work like that – in muggle science fiction novel."

"Wha -?"

"And the theory of that muggle, Einstein, might be interpreted that way as well, I guess. That's what I meant by 'curious equations'."

"But just -! What a second, _please_," he requested, because it was a bit too much confusing information in too little time for him to wrap his mind about it.

Besides, while coming across a wizard familiar with muggle world, excluding muggleborns of course, was an unlikely occurrence, happening upon one well versed with muggle science felt like going down the rabbit hole.

"Why wouldn't it work for us?" Harry asked after a short pause.

"_Because_," Selwyn wasted no time to reply "in the real word, and yes, even in the magical one," he added quickly, seeing as Harry was about to interrupt him, "there are no alternative universes or splinching timelines. _**None**_. There is only this one world, in which time is passing linearly from past to future."

"Then how is it possible I travelled back in time?" Harry asked, doubtfully, once the Unspeakable's words sunk in.

"_**It's impossible!**_" Selwyn hissed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Or it should be impossible," he clarified, schooling his facial expression back into its blank state, somehow embarrassed by his display of emotion, _so unbecoming_, if a little cough he gave out was anything to go by. "But from what you've told us, we gathered that," he flipped through his notes, "what your wish made happen isn't a time travel per se, but a time loop. In other words, your wish worked like one of those time turners we're supposed to create at some point in the future. By the way," he said, as in an afterthought, "the research team from Time Room sends their regards. If it wasn't for the information you provided, they wouldn't get the grant."

"Oh, they're welcome," Harry couldn't help his sarcasm. "And so what if it's a time loop? In my third year my friend and I used time turner to help my godfather escape – to change the course of events! And everything worked just fine."

"But it was completely different situation. You see, Mr. Potter, for time loop to work, time traveller has to come back to the same exact moment when he had used time turner. As in, to connect loose ends and close the loop. In your third year, you used time turner while you were in hospital wing, just after unpleasant chat with the minister. So, in order to close the loop, after freeing your godfather, you had to come back to hospital wing and take your place there, the moment you saw yourself disappear. Are you following me so far, Mr. Potter?"

Harry curtly nodded, impatient. Of course he followed, he had been there, for crying out loud!

"Splendid. Now, altering the events was possible only because freeing your godfather had no direct influence on your talk with the minister in the hospital wing. Even though your godfather wasn't there any more, it was the minister's firm believe that he _was_ there, that counted – and so, even though you altered the events, the moment you used the time turner was still the same, thus you were able to safely return to it. Essentially, in your third year you didn't splinch the timeline. You..._rewrote_ three hours' worth of wizardkind history.

"But in our case it's not three hours, it's fifty four years, and your meddling right now might over the years lead to completely different circumstances."

The dawning realisation of what exactly Selwyn was imputing wasn't to his liking. "Are you saying that," he frowned, "I have to stand aside and do nothing...just watch those terrible things happen, without interfering, so that I can jump into headmaster's office, right after the battle?"

Selwyn nodded, his face carefully expressionless.

"And what if I refuse?" Harry challenged, crossing his hands over his chest.

"And here it comes," Selwyn mumbled, picking up his energy potion. "Altering events will cause paradox," he said, once he took a swing. "Which is – Merlin, how should I explain it..." Selwyn pondered on it for a moment. "Mr. Potter, you attended muggle primary school, so you were taught some rudimentary mathematics, weren't you?"

Rather than the subject itself, Harry remembered blue hair of the teacher who taught it. "The gist of it," he replied.

"Fair enough," Selwyn nodded. "Think of it as of an equation. There's left side of equation and right side. When on both sides there is an equal value – and only then – the equation is correct.

"Now, let's apply that to the timeline. There is past which is like left side of an equation and future – right side of it. In the past we have reasons and in future there are results. Every reason leads eventually to its result; on both sides there's an equal value, so to speak.

"Then, there's the time loop. We know what's on the right side of equation, that is – we know what will happen in the future. Thanks to you, Mr. Potter, because the way you are right now, your very existence, is the result of everything that will happen up till May the second, 1998. And because we know the future, as in, right side of equation, in order for our timeline to remain intact, we must ensure that on the left side there's an equal value – meaning, ensure the events that shaped you will take place."

"Why is it so important the timeline remains intact?"

"Because the moment a paradox occurs, our universe becomes like an incorrect equation. And should our world become an incorrect equation..." Selwyn emitted small, rather hysterical laugh, "dear Merlin and Morgana, I'm afraid to even think of what would happen then.

"That takes us back to my primary point – we are screwed. The time loop must be closed, or else conflicting forces would tear the universe apart. So, we have to send you back to your time, the sooner the better, but as of now, we have no idea whatsoever how to do that. In the meantime so many things can go wrong... And we need to get you somewhere safe, when Grindewald won't be able to reach you; even if you say you barely passed History of Magic, still the knowledge you possess, should the Dark Lord get hold of it -"

"So there's really nothing I can do?" Harry asked, looking down at his hands.

"As much as I wish there was..." the Unspeakable's voice trailed off. "Nevertheless, from the point of view of the observer in 1998, this conversation we are having right now is long since past and your time travel here had already happened. Voldemort's rise to power cannot be stopped, because you, time traveller from the future, know it couldn't have been stopped. In this case, I'm afraid," Selwyn's voice shook ever so slightly, "our future is set in stone."

"Our?"

"You said so yourself, Mr. Potter. There are no Selwyns left around in your time."

* * *

Long time ago, Lord Voldemort had a dream.

He was in Department of Mysteries, talking with a man long since dead. Killed by Voldemort's own spell.

The man was saying something, he couldn't remember what, and was looking straight into his eyes, calmly, without flinching – like no one else had in so many years. Then, something akin to regret clouded the man's eyes.

"_...future is set in stone."_

_. . ._

When Voldemort awoke, he laid still for some time, listening to the silence of his hideout. What a strange dream he had, he wondered, that didn't seem like a dream at all. It rather felt like a...recollection of a half-forgotten memory

(a dream within a dream?)

though, oddly enough, one that wasn't his own.

_Future is set in stone_, were the only words from that dream conversation Lord Voldemort was able to recall. And they bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Because – surely, it couldn't be a case! Voldemort alone was the master of his own destiny. Only he would shape it, the way he saw it fit.

If future was set in stone indeed, then it was carved there by the Dark Lord himself.

...Few years later a prophecy foretelling his vanquisher was made.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter wasn't so exciting, but I needed to explain the theory behind my idea of time travel.

And before you say I suck, go back to read the ending of the previous chapter ;).

* "Something unknown is doing we don't know what" / Sir Arthur Eddington


	7. Chapter 7

On the morning of September the second Tom used a clever spell to hide dark circles under his eyes. Then, having schooled his expression into that of an earnest, dedicated student, with his head held high, he headed to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Slughorn was already, Tom noticed to his moderate displeasure, waiting with a neat stack of new schedules for his students and unfortunately – to Tom's great displeasure – so was Dumbledore. The sight of his Transfiguration professor was highly undesirable under normal circumstances, but that morning, when Tom's polite smile was already so very strained, and the old fool actually had the gall to look at him with what appeared to be a _worry_ -

Tom greeted him with a perfectly civilised _good morning_ and a raised eyebrow, quite mockingly so, just to let the man know the sentiment was not appreciated.

But then, there was Slughorn. Tom found the Potion Master mildly annoying at best, but that particular morning the jovial, old man was nothing short of _insufferable._ Tom pretended to be interested in his incessant chatter, all the while grinding his teeth and shooting nervous glances towards the entrance.

He got his schedule eventually and he starred at it blankly for some time, once he had got to his seat, trying to quell his irrational fears and get his emotions back under control. It was ridiculous, he knew – there was no way an Auror squad was going to storm the castle and attempt to arrest him, for Merlin's sake, just because that boy did truly exist, it didn't mean he was be in the know regarding Tom's involvement with the attacks on mudbloods from two years before!

And yet, here he was, mournfully stirring his porridge, wishing his hands would stop shaking.

He tried to reason with himself. There was no way that dream – as always, he felt a phantom pain in his chest at the recollection of it – could have somehow, _impossibly so_ been a glimpse of a real life event. No, not when Tom had seen to it. That dream... The boy in the Chamber, _Tom's diary stabbed with a Basilisk fang_ – was but a fantasy of his restless mind.

The boy knew nothing, so there was nothing he could accuse Tom of.

Unfortunately, reason meant very little to Tom that morning, as he eventually gave in to his paranoia and discretely curled his fingers around his wand; he was not going to be taken by surprise and he had already decided he would blast his way out, if needed, appearances be damned.

He absolutely loathed being reduced to such pitiful stance, he thought as he marched out of the Great Hall some time later, leaving his porridge untouched. But if there was one thing that could get everything back on track, he thought, it was finding out _what on earth had happened the day before_.

And find out he would, and so help him, he was not above using questionable and downright illegal ways to do just that.

. . .

A week has passed and two things became evident.

For one – if no Auror squad tried to storm the castle insofar, they weren't going to do so at all. Satisfied with said conclusion, Tom forced himself to relax.

The second realisation, however, made Tom feel far less pleased.

What little free time Tom had left between classes and his Head Boy duties that passed week, he sorely dedicated to his obsessive research. He painstakingly turned page after page in the same dusty, old volumes the Restricted Section had to offer. He read from cover to cover, for the umpteenth time, the Grimoires he borrowed from his gullible pureblooded house mates and conveniently forgot to return – because there _still_ could be something he had missed.

All that effort, however, was yet again proven a terrible waste of time. But while still at Hogwarts, there was little more he could do. Between Dumbledore's watchful gaze and being forced to sit through the classes he long since learned on his own, his hands were tied – and it frustrated him to no end. Had he been the Ministry's employee, he would be able to use connections, threats, or became Unspeakable himself, Merlin knew with his marks even Department of Mysteries would welcome him with open arms among its midst – to worm his way down to the ninth level and finally _get to the bottom of this_.

He remembered some of his _friends_ had family members in high places in the Ministry and well, that was something Tom could work with, especially since said friends, deeply...troubled with his continuous foul mood, were very eager to get into his good graces. But all that eagerness was for naught as well, as it turned out soon after. The Unspeakables kept the whole Accident so frustratingly hush-hush, the majority of Ministry's employees weren't even aware someone was brought to the ninth level that evening. The press was also left in the dark; with exception of one short article, published on the page eleven, no less, not a single word has been written on the matter.

...Merlin, but Tom _had _to understand what had happened that evening! It was far worse than his fruitless research of Horcruxes had been; that seemed like a childish whim to him, now. But this – _the weeping child, the bloodied young man, dreams that maybe weren't dreams at all... _This Tom needed to understand, because otherwise, nothing would ever make any sense again.

Ironically, it was Slughorn who finally shed some light on the issue – just as it had been with the Horcruxes. Tom could tell the plump old man was dying to share everything he knew about the Accident with his favourite pupils, so during the first Slug Club party of the season, once Tom deemed his Potion Master has had just enough punch, he was almost obliged to ask the man the right question.

All Slughorn knew, though, was not that much after all, so the major breakthrough only came few days later – over two weeks after the Accident, to be exact, when the Head of the Houses shared with their pupils some rather important news.

* * *

They were both silent for some time.

Everything the Head Unspeakable disclosed to Harry so far - ...it was a lot to take in. He didn't like the sound of most of it, but he had yet to wrap his head about the whole concept, and maybe, just maybe -

Accepting his fate and bravely going to meet it would have been the wiser thing to do.

_**No**_, he couldn't afford getting emotional over it right now. If the passed year, constantly on the run from Voldemort, taught him anything, it was the need of cool detachment. First, establish the crucial matters concerning the situation at hand. Time for emotional turmoil would always come later.

He cleared his throat to caught the Unspeakable's attention. "So, what are you going to with me?" he asked. "I mean, since I cannot change the future and you don't know how to send be back to 1998... You're not going to keep me _here_, are you?" he said, struck with a sudden apprehension.

Merlin knew Harry had enough of the ninth level to last him for a lifetime.

Selwyn shook his head. "No."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"Our priority is to keep the knowledge of future events secure, especially from the Dark Lord Grindewald. His sympathisers won't be able to leak information from our department. The data is strictly classified and excluding me, only two Unspeakables who interrogated you share your knowledge about the future. And the three of us are master Occlumenses."

"Uh, all right?" it didn't really answer Harry's question, but he appreciated being informed of this nevertheless.

"What's left, is the matter of your security Mr. Potter, and as much as I would like to deny it – there far too many wizards working here, who sympathise with Grindewald's cause."

"Well, then...? Where are you going to move me?"

Although Selwyn kept his expression carefully blank, Harry got an impression the man was suddenly very uncomfortable. Harry narrowed his eyes.

"There are only two completely secure places in the magical Great Britain," Selwyn stated and sipped his potion.

Harry starred at him expectantly, willing him to continue.

"What do you think they are, Mr. Potter?" the Unspeakable inquired, now looking quite sour.

"It's not a roundabout way of saying you're sending me off to Hogwarts, is it?"

Selwyn stayed suspiciously silent.

"Because, you know... The teenage Dark Lord is there," Harry reminded him, carefully pronouncing each word, as if he was talking to a particularly slow child. Or to his cousin, Dudley.

"I realise it's not a perfect solution -"

"Not a perfect -?" Harry gapped, incredulous. "Oh, I beg to differ! It's the worse solution there is!" well, so much for not loosing his temper. "I can't believe you! For the last half an hour you've been hammering _no changes_ into my skull and then you're just sending me off to Tom bloody Riddle's playground!"

Selwyn discretely checked his notes. "Right, you said it's Tom Riddle that's going to be the Dark Lord..." he starred at the page for a moment, thoughtful, disregard of fuming Harry. "Such a bright student. What a terrible waste."

"Bright student indeed, but _that's not an issue here!_" he snarled.

Only when Selwyn jumped in his seat, startled, Harry realised he unconsciously lapsed into Parseltounge.

"...you might want to refrain from that in Hogwarts," the man remarked, quickly composing himself.

"You can't be serious," Harry crossed his arms over his chest.

"The other completely secure place is Azkaban," Selwyn offered, offhandedly.

..._Oh_.

"Actually, in the great scheme of things putting you there would be less risky than sending you to Hogwarts. But then, Law Enforcement would get involved and too many wizards with...questionable loyalties would get access to this case. Headmaster Dippet, however, understands our need of secrecy and is willing to cooperate.

"Believe me, Mr. Potter, I know it's not a perfect solution. We're choosing between two evils. Things are at risk either way, either with you being tempted to change the course of evens, or with Dark Lord Grindewald finding out about the future – and his own downfall."

"And, in the end, you choose – what? You decided I'm the lesser evil?" he asked, feeling oddly upset. "You know what?"

The Unspeakable raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

There were many things Harry was tempted to say; but then, Selwyn would retort, Harry would get even more upset, and everything would still come down to him being shipped to Hogwarts.

"Oh, screw it. All right, I'll go there."

* * *

Fifty four years into future, Lord Voldemort was waiting in Forbidden Forest for his prophesied enemy – and suddenly, remembered something strange.

Sometime during his first rise to power he has taken up a habit of using Pensieve. There were so many things on his mind at that time, so many thoughts crowded in his head, he otherwise wouldn't be able to focus on any task. Only at night, when sleep continued to allude him, he picked up those thoughts and memories, and spent hours watching his past.

He couldn't pinpoint when exactly, but he noticed them eventually – and realised that indeed, whenever something significant happened on his way to greatness, they were always there. Impassively watching from the sidelines. And he, Lord Voldemort, has always seen them from the corner of his eye.

Two men, always the same. Unspeakables, judging by the colour of their robes.

(_To ensure everything would happen the way it should_, a thought flickered in his mind.)

...Now that he thought about it – wasn't those two Unspeakables and their enigmatic presence the reason he decided to recruit Rookwood into his ranks? But somehow, Voldemort forgot to ask him about them and that was very unlike him.

Voldemort frowned.

Something strange was at work in here.


End file.
